


Under The Influence

by elbowsinsidethedoor



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-14
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-11-14 04:35:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11200542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elbowsinsidethedoor/pseuds/elbowsinsidethedoor
Summary: A post "Identity Crisis" story. Harold under the influence of ecstasy and John under the influence of his feelings for Harold.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Lisa garland recently posted a charming little story of Harold in Fusco's squad car, playing with the buttons. I was inspired to take it from there!

Harold woke up feeling happy, if a little fuzzy, as if something really good had happened that he couldn’t quite recall. He felt a little thirsty. He blinked up at the ceiling, realizing he must have slept at the library; in the side room where he had an old bed frame and a more or less decent mattress. He gave a start as he tried to reach for his glasses and found his wrist was softly bound in his own silk tie, the other end tied to the head of the bed.

“What?” he murmured aloud, and then saw John, asleep in an armchair next to the bed. He was stirring, and sat up abruptly as he woke, shaking his head as if to clear it.

“Morning, Finch.” His soft voice was somewhat reassuring, but what on earth was going on? John must have dragged the chair into the room and … oh god. Jordan Hester. The wrong one. Charles Dickens and “Our Mutual Friend,” and … oh god.

“I’ll help you with that,” John said, leaning toward him. With one deft pull he freed Harold’s wrist but that was the least of Harold’s worries.

“She drugged me.” He remembered looking at her, sideways.

“She dosed you pretty bad, Finch. The police have her now.”

“No thanks to me,” Harold murmured, his thoughts fogging between shame at how she’d taken him in and shame at how he must have behaved. He vaguely recalled setting off sirens in Fusco’s car. What had he done? Something bad enough to necessitate John tying him to the bed frame. This set off a deep layer of alarm. “I’m afraid apologies are in order.” He sat up slowly, his face becoming uncomfortably warm. 

“Careful,” John said.

“Thank you for … for looking after me,” he managed to say.

“No problem.”

Harold was torn between wanting to ask questions and not wanting the answers. What else had he done? John’s face was giving nothing away. He returned Harold’s gaze with a mild expression, maybe a suggestion of a smile.

“I should probably hit the road. Is there anything you need, before I take off?”

“Mr Reese, wait. John, I’m not sure how … to put this, exactly, but securing me here to the bed …” he began.

“Harold, don’t worry about it.” Worry didn’t begin to describe it, Harold thought.

As if it were a dream he’d had, he heard himself urging John to lie down with him and knew John had given in to his pleading. An incredible sense memory of happiness flooded him, like he was a child and the biggest, most wonderful gift had been given to him. The excitement of it, the remembrance of joy was battling shame as he remembered putting his hands on John.

Eyes closed, his heart sinking, he muttered, “I am so sorry.”

“Harold, look at me.”

 

***

 

John was a man with a problem. Not the worst, in the grand scheme of things, but a problem nonetheless. He had to maintain distance between himself and a sweetly affectionate, drugged out of his mind, Harold. Part of John’s problem was the possibility that his very private boss would spill secrets he’d later regret telling. The other part was the secret of his own.

It wasn’t safe to leave Harold alone at the library, that much was clear. He gave him a pillow and blanket, some bottled water and pointed him in the direction of the room with the bed. He settled himself on one of the library couches not far from the exit, just in case Harold got up and tried to wander out. 

Harold did get up to wander, but not toward the door. He wanted onto the couch with John.

“Not a good idea,” John had said, holding up his hands to stop him from climbing on top of him at the same time as trying to slide out from under.

“Hush,” Harold whispered. “We’ll be fine here, there’s plenty of room.”

Ecstasy was sometimes dubbed a “love drug,” its effects heightening sensuality, exciting a need for touch, and John’s usually reserved and buttoned-up boss had turned into a puppy; softly eager, determined to get close and snuggle. Like a puppy, he was almost impossible to resist.

John took him to the bed and persuaded him to lie down but he wouldn’t stay put … unless John lay down with him. That was something of a mistake. Harold was still for a few moments. John glanced at him, praying he was getting sleepy, only to find his eyes open and gazing at him dreamily in the semi-darkness.

“I like you so much,” Harold’s voice was like a stage whisper. “Do you like me?”

“I do, Harold. Why don’t you close your eyes now and get some sleep.”

“You won’t go?”

“I’ll stay right here.”

“Okay, let’s close our eyes,” Harold said, inching closer. He rested his hand on John’s arm and John thought, that’s all right. If he needed to touch, the arm was … okay. But the hand was not still, rubbing and caressing John’s forearm. Awkward, maybe, but not crossing into any serious territory.

The heart of John’s problem. He wanted Harold to touch him. A lot.

Harold Finch was his type. Not the type he ever ended up with, the type he always wanted. The kind of man that rarely wanted him. Smart, sophisticated, and subtly, incredibly powerful. John had been sunk from the moment he’d found himself unable to hurt Harold, gazing deep in his big blue eyes, inches across a choke hold. No fear. The man had shown no fear of him, had reached inside him with his voice. For John, that was it. He’d backed away from him, landing in a chair, struggling to control a mix of emotions, knowing inside that he was giving himself to Harold.

He had been working hard for him. He’d been displaying himself to him from the start, trying to excite some interest, some response. There were hints, a certain way he’d catch Harold looking at him, with an almost proprietary pleasure. But there was nothing overt, nothing solid enough to act on. And now here they were.

Dosed with E, Harold had become warm sticky taffy that John had to resist. Resist, when all he wanted was to strip himself naked and let the man melt all over him.

The night was sweet torture. He was helplessly aroused and terrified of Harold grabbing hold of him. This was not the way that anything should happen. The tie was a safeguard when the man finally got sleepy and closed his eyes. John brought in the armchair and made himself as comfortable as he could, secure in the knowledge that with Harold tied to the bed, he wasn’t in danger of waking up to find him in his lap.


	2. Chapter 2

“Harold, look at me.” He made himself do so. “No apology needed,” John said. He said it simply. Harold could feel he wanted to put an end to the discussion.

It sounded sincere and, of course, John was right. It wasn’t as if he’d indulged himself, getting drunk at a party; he’d been drugged. Harold took in a deep breath and resolved to let it go. Dwelling on it would only draw out the embarrassment, for both of them. There were things, certain personal things, that only got more complicated when they were examined too closely. If he’d acted out impulses, it was better to let it fall under the heading of “drugged.” It was better not to walk the dangerous path of trying to explain himself to John Reese.

He stood up, determined to move on, gather what was left of his dignity. But he was unsteady on his feet. John rose quickly, reaching out to grip his arm and support him. Suddenly they were toe to toe and Harold felt like an inner tide was urging him forward. He wanted to move those last inches, lean into John (and feel him put his arms around him) but he self-consciously drew back, swaying.

“I’m okay,” he said, but the effort not to move forward sent him backwards, landing awkwardly seated, back on the bed. His head was spinning.

“Give it a minute,” John said. He picked up one of the water bottles on the nightstand, twisted and popped the nozzle and handed it to him. “Drink some water.”

Harold took it in a shaky hand and upended it, squeezing it to fill his mouth. As he drank, he remembered how John had gently insisted he drink the night before. He remembered sucking at the plastic tip, holding John’s wrist as the water flowed into his mouth. He could hear him saying, “Careful, a little at a time.”

 

***

John would rather have faced physical torture that morning than deal with how upset Harold was by his loss of control. Easier to endure pain than Harold’s helpless embarrassment and distress. Telling him it didn’t matter, that he had nothing to apologize for, only seemed to make it worse. The man was horrified — John could see it in his eyes. Things that John would remember with guilty pleasure were obviously agonizing to Harold.

He needed to get away and stay away for a while, let the man have some peace, but each time he was about to make an exit, it didn’t quite happen. Harold was in bad shape, physically. Depleted and dehydrated, despite John’s efforts to get water into him in the night. Not good to think about that; how arousing it was to watch Harold suck on the bottle, feeling his curious, sensitive fingers come to rest around his wrist.

He should go. He should leave him alone, but it felt cowardly. He didn’t like the idea of him stumbling unsteadily around the library.

“Harold, why don’t you stay put and I’ll go out and get you something to eat.”

“Yes, all right.” He sounded cowed, diminished, and it was so wrong. John wanted to insist again that there was nothing that had happened that he should be ashamed of, but there wasn’t much use in repeating it. Better to head out, get him some tea, get some food in him. Give him a little time to compose himself.

 

***

Harold got himself slowly and carefully to the bathroom, leaning against the wall as he walked. It helped to wash up, to relieve himself, even though each passing moment seemed to bring another memory. He wasn’t sure what upset him more, that he’d behaved like a lovestruck fool … or that he actually was one, and now John knew it.

His feelings for John were meant to be hidden, like a pirate’s treasure or a dragon’s hoard. They were safe inside. He lived with them and cautiously examined a shiny one here, a golden one there, in the privacy of his mind. It was … his way. He was accustomed to confining his sexual life to the solitary world of fantasy. Only Grace had ever drawn him out; a woman so delightfully unconventional, so accepting and easy to be with, that Harold had dared to express himself physically with her, holding hands, brushing her hair, bathing together. Ultimately, they’d had intercourse but she’d eased him to it gradually.

He’d never fit comfortably in a defined role, feeling at times drawn to men (like Nathan) and sometimes to women. He’d never been as powerfully attracted to anyone as he was to John.

John was endlessly fascinating to him. He loved to look at him. He loved the sound of his voice. Sometimes sharing a meal with him was almost unbearably erotic. When Harold let his thoughts roam free, in privacy, he fantasized about touching him. It aroused him to imagine lying on top of him, being given free rein to handle his body. And that, he thought, with an inner groan, was exactly what he’d tried to do the night before.

There was no undoing what had happened, no way to erase it. He thought back to how he’d stumbled once with Nathan, after drinking too much wine. Ever after the man had teased him about it. “Some people,” Nathan used to say, “get belligerent when they drink. Harold gets affectionate.”

I survived that, he thought, I can survive this.

 

***

The food was helping, John thought. He had brought Harold's favorites from their usual Chinese restaurant. Between the dumplings and the tea, he seemed to be coming back into focus, sitting a little straighter. Avoiding eye contact, but maybe approaching normal.

Normal was good. Mostly good. Except for the part that was bad.

John missed … puppy Harold. He could almost see him, as if he were just under the surface, not accessible but visible in imaginary outline. That Harold would probably like to be fed by hand, John thought. He looked at the golden dumplings and thought about what it would feel like to put one in Harold’s mouth. Puppy Harold would definitely be sitting much closer to him on the couch, pausing between bites of food to look at him with stars in his eyes.

The distance between them now felt awkward, forced. Was it really better to keep everything hidden?

John sighed.

“What’s wrong?” Harold asked him, brows drawn. John sat back on the couch, throwing in a mental towel.

“I shouldn’t say this … “ But he was going to. It couldn’t be worse than this deadened feeling. He considered himself very good at keeping secrets, but he was also good at exposing them, taking risks.

“But,” Harold prompted, waiting. He looked anxious, like he was bracing himself for bad news.

“About last night, Harold.”

“Yes.”

“I couldn’t give in to you … but I wanted to.”

The words were out of his mouth. For better, for worse. Harold frowned, but John thought it was a look of concentration, not distress. I’ll take it, he thought. He felt more alive in his own skin with the act of saying something true. He didn’t flinch from Harold’s gaze.

“That is an extraordinary thing to say to me.”

“Extraordinary,” John echoed. “Is that good?” Harold’s frown was softening and so was the look in his eyes. He sat very still, holding the carton of vegetable fried rice in one hand, his chopsticks in the other, gazing at John without speaking.

John picked up a dumpling and dipped it in sauce. Shielding the drips with a napkin, he moved closer to Harold on the couch.

“Have a dumpling.” He held it up to his mouth. Harold’s eyes closed and he opened his mouth to accept it.

***

The quiet of the meal was oppressive. Harold was touched that John had brought him his favorites but the pleasure of eating seemed out of reach. He made an effort but felt himself woodenly performing, like an imitation of himself.

He was uncomfortably aware of being looked at, afraid of what John was thinking. When he heard him sigh, he felt alarmed.

“What’s wrong?” As if there could be any doubt. This was it, he thought. John was either going to say he felt uncomfortable working with him, or just as bad, that he understood and had sympathy for Harold’s feelings, but …

“I shouldn’t say this … “

Harold’s heart was getting heavier in his chest by the second. Whatever this was, it was hard for John to say and that was not good.

“But …” he urged him to go on, to get it over with. He would do his best to repair the damage. For the sake of their mission, for the sake of the numbers. To honor Nathan. There were a thousand reasons to fix this, and no excuse for indulging in his private, personal discomfort.

“About last night, Harold.”

“Yes.” He managed to articulate the word, waiting for the axe to fall.

“I couldn’t give in to you ... but I wanted to.”

What? He heard the words but his reasoning hit pause. Slowly he examined what John had said. Somewhere inside him, his longings, like featherlight bunnies, pricked their ears as they sensed the unlocking of their cage. Harold spoke very carefully.

“That is an extraordinary thing to say to me.”

“Extraordinary. Is that good?” John asked him.

Is it good to see the sun rise? he thought, but didn’t speak. Extraordinary. He had no other word. John was moving toward him and the anticipation of his closeness was almost too much to bear; joy was scampering through his body. He watched him prepare a dumpling and felt almost faint with the knowledge that it was for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think there is one more chapter to follow. I totally lost control on the sweetness dial. Forgive me!!


	3. Chapter 3

The feel of John’s fingers on his lips, the taste of the food in his mouth; Harold was in heaven. Opening his eyes, he saw how he was being watched. John’s expression was so tender. It felt like they were stepping into a different world, a world where his private dreams were visible. It was a vulnerable feeling, but also a magical one.

He was acutely aware that he was opening up not only to being seen, but to seeing. It was astonishing to feel the currents of John’s desire and know he was as vulnerable in this moment as Harold was himself.

John continued to feed him. Steamed wontons, swirled in the dipping sauce Harold loved. The wontons were warm mouthfuls, the sauce, salty and spicy, with a dash of bright lemon. Mouth-watering. Harold grasped John’s wrist, keeping his hand close. After he’d swallowed, he sucked at the sauce on his fingers, again closing his eyes to enhance the sensations and flavors. The first kiss happened then, touching his cheek as he sucked. It made him shiver with pleasure.

 

***

The half-sprung couch in the computer room wasn’t the best place to stage a seduction but it would do. Could be worse, John thought, stacking the two loose pillows behind Harold to lean him back on the arm of it. Better not to stop and relocate when he was getting everything he wanted, right here. Hot kisses, warm skin. Shirts were unbuttoned, pants opened, fabric pushed away everywhere they could reach to touch each other. John knew he couldn’t last long at this pitch, not with Harold’s soft-padded fingertips exploring him like a little raccoon. John was on his knees beside him, kissing him, doing his own exploration through silky boxers. He didn’t want Harold to come before he could get his mouth on him. The fabric was warm, a little damp, and slid over the promising thickness of his erection.

One of Harold’s hands closed around John, the other was holding him down by the neck to kiss.

When John couldn’t hold back another second … he backed away from the kiss to gasp, guiding Harold’s moist fist so he could come inside it.

Harold was gazing up at him, red-cheeked, watching intently as John tried to recover, catching his breath as his heart rate slowed, easing Harold’s hand away. He sat back on his heels, reaching behind for the pile of paper napkins on the table.

“Sorry,” he murmured, holding his hand, cleaning the pooled semen from the open palm, off the man's fingers. A grin was teasing at the corners of John's mouth and he glanced at Harold, who looked … kind of like a puppy in love. “Okay,” he admitted. “Not sorry.”

Harold smiled and tugged at John’s open shirt, pulling him back down to more kisses.

 

***

There had been long hauls in their work life together, numbers that spanned days, nights that spilled into mornings and afternoons, with little sleep. For once, Harold thought, the time had stretched to be filled with something other than work, anxiety, and violence. They hadn’t stirred from the library all day, all evening. They’d napped, awakened to eat and drink, make love again. Harold had awakened in the middle of the night and turned on his side, adjusting his pillow, gazing at John through sleepy eyes.

Maybe we deserve this, he thought, curling close to him. Certainly John deserved it; rest, something good in his life, some pleasure. Harold’s own worthiness, he didn’t care to contemplate. Deserving or not, he was too grateful to turn down the gift John was giving.

I will try to be worthy of him, he thought. Keep him safe. He let his eyes close on the sight of John’s sleeping profile, drifting back to sleep.


End file.
